


Whenever I'm Alone with You

by stellarbisexual



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biphobia, Bisexual Richie Tozier, College, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Make Outs, Richie POV, Underage Drinking, era-appropriate jams (obviously), lots of f-bombs (I mean it's Richie), mild drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-05 04:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12182691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual
Summary: Losers in college.  Richie's in an alternative rock band, and Eddie has flung himself into the queer scene.Companion piece:Hummingbird, from Eddie's POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semperama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/gifts).



> Though the Losers have drifted over the years, they remember their friendship--but not the horrific events surrounding Pennywise or the missing kids of Derry. Those repressed memories may come up as the fic progresses but probably won't be featured in any major way. 
> 
> Other AU elements are that Richie, Eddie, Bev, and Mike aren't following their arcs from the novel. Other members of Lucky Seven may join eventually! Have not decided yet.
> 
> *
> 
> TBH this fic is just as much an excuse for me to relive my youth as it is for me to throw myself into the Reddie love. Bless the year 1995 and its music. 
> 
> "Another Night" by Real McCoy for the young'uns:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pav2f4b-1ZE
> 
> *Will definitely be providing links to jams throughout. Yay!

Richie has never been happier to be in the middle of fucking nowhere. 

After grinding out a grueling summer working at his uncle’s car shop back in Derry, he couldn’t wait to blow a kiss to his piece of shit hometown, get in his piece of shit car, and get back to Middlebury. The only reason he hadn’t stuck around campus after freshman year ended was because he couldn’t afford to--which had been the whole impetus for him taking the gig at his uncle’s shop. He didn’t want to be in the same position next summer. 

And now, he’s back. Back with his friends in his new adult life, where he belongs. Away from his parents. Free. Dancing at the first party of the year, the one on the football field, the big one, the one the night before classes start, the one that fucking everyone goes to no matter what their vibe is. It’s certainly not his scene (or his friends’), but he grabs a plastic cup, puts as many glow necklaces as possible around his wrists, and breaks it down to “Another Night” by Real McCoy. He’s high on his rediscovered freedom. 

(...And soon, he, Bev, and Mike will also be high on the weed she promised to bring tonight.)

Around the second “rap” (if you could call it that), Bev stops them, turning their attention to the locker room doors, which have just been flung wide open. It’s a sea of color: glitter, rainbow accessories, makeup, and some flashy-ass outfits. 

“LGSA,” Bev squeals. “Woo!” She throws her arms up. 

Mike smiles, watching the group’s fabulous entrance. “Awesome.”

Most of the other students there cheer. Anyone who’s potentially inclined to do the opposite is discouraged by how fucking big and loud the group is. 

A soft smile melts over Richie’s face as he sees who the group is holding high above their heads and carrying across the field _Rudy_ -style: none other than his old best friend Eddie Kaspbrak. 

“Rich, aren’t you a member? Get in there,” Mike encourages. 

“Nah, they don’t allow filthy bisexuals into Club Queer, I’m afraid.”

“That’s not true.” Bev pinches his side. “You’re such a bitter half-’mo.” They all turn their attention back to Eddie. “Go, Eddie!” Bev claps, jumping up and down. 

It has been a fucking ride witnessing Eddie’s transformation over the last year. Their friendship may have dissolved as high school wore on, and even continued to as Eddie and Bev reconnected in college, but Richie’s always paid attention, so proud of Eddie for taking a leap, getting the fuck out of Derry and away from his nightmare mother, and finding himself. 

Turns out the real Eddie is super fucking gay. 

The LGSA takes up residence right smack in the center of the dance floor, and everybody happily makes room for them. Eddie’s finally lowered to the ground. He shakes out his limbs, feigning dizziness, and is immediately pulled into the fray with a couple of guys looking to grind with him. 

Eddie finally had a major spurt the summer right after high school, but his face basically stayed the same, so he’s about 5’9” and conventionally good-looking enough to pass for a fucking frat boy. He ditched his swishy red little short-shorts years ago (if Richie’s honest with himself, he kind of misses them) and opts for polos in pastels and light denim jeans. Even tonight he isn’t flashy--just some rainbow stickers on his face--but he’s as fucking cute as ever in Richie’s eyes. 

Richie’s still taller, though. His face has gone way more angular than it used to be, and he’s graduated from his clunky, thick frames to contacts (and a decidedly hipper pair of glasses for when he takes them out at night). He lets his dark curls hang low in his eyes and around his ears and paints his fingernails in dark, dark purples and greens and blues, even sometimes classic black. Eyeliner is a thing he saves for special occasions, like his band’s gigs and parties. Like tonight. 

Eddie’s getting spun around by a big bear type named Derrick. They’re not dating or anything; Richie would know. (Again, he’s been paying attention.) But it doesn’t stop him from feeling a tiny prickle of jealousy at the pit of his stomach. He sips on his beer for a distraction, nearly choking when he sees Eddie laugh at some ridiculous move Derrick pulls. His smile is still exactly the same as it was when they were kids, when Richie was usually the one putting it there (and taking it away, too, if he’s honest--Richie loved little more than giving Eddie constant shit). Seeing it so bright under the stadium lights fills Richie with a mixture of longing and comfort. 

“Rich. _...Rich._ ” Mike claps him on the back to get his attention. “Wanna go get blazed?” He nods to Bev, who points playfully to the joint tucked into her bra.

“Wow, that’s where it’s coming from? Sweet ambrosia. I’ll just get it out with my mouth.” He leans toward Bev’s chest just enough to get her to hit him upside the head. 

“Come on, asshole.” Bev takes him by the collar and starts pulling him toward the exit. 

Mike giggles, strolling beside them. “Classic Trashmouth.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning finds Richie looking like a hot mess in the mirror of his dorm’s bathroom. He groggily brushes his teeth, allowing the foam to collect at the corners of his mouth and beyond, the remnants of eyeliner all smudgy around the bottoms of his bloodshot eyes. He’s definitely not going anywhere near his contacts today.

He washes his mouth out, messes with his bedhead hair--to no avail--and sighs, tossing his backpack over one shoulder and heading out. 

He hadn’t gotten in until around 3. The old Richie would have blown off his first class this morning, no question.

It was around junior year of high school, though, that he realized that if he didn’t turn shit around and start taking _some_ of it seriously, he’d never get out of Derry. So, much to everyone’s amazement, including his own, he did. And as it turned out, Richie was pretty fucking smart, especially in classes where his success hinged upon him giving his opinion, like English. He’d gotten into almost every college he’d applied to, with full financial aid to NYU--which everyone thought he’d take. But he didn’t really care where he went, so long as his friends were there. So Middlebury it was. 

Plus, he’s actually excited for his first class. It’s Queer Cinema. He hasn’t declared a major yet, but he’s pretty sure it’s going to be film & media (“You can major in watching movies? Are you fucking kidding me?!” he remembers shouting at one of the student ambassadors at orientation last year). The already slight autumn bite in the air wakes him up as he walks along the tree-lined paths of campus, passing some other very hungover students along the way. 

Richie rushes through the door to his classroom at just a minute past the start of class time, slinking into an open seat in the second row. It’s a predictably small group. He gathers himself, heart still beating hard from rushing through the hall, grabbing a copy of the syllabus absentmindedly as it’s handed to him from over his shoulder. Professor Lawrence starts making her introduction, and Richie takes the opportunity for a quick peek around the room. Does he know anyone? 

He’s just about to sigh with disappointment when his eyes come back around and spot Eddie’s head in the front row, a chunk of his chestnut hair just slightly askew in the back. Richie smiles. Looks like Eddie’s left some old habits behind, too. He watches him yawn in profile and sit up straighter as Professor Lawrence starts doing roll call. It’s clear that Eddie hadn’t noticed Richie come in because when she gets to “Tozier,” his head whips around like fucking Linda Blair, wide golden brown eyes landing on him. Richie gives him a nod and a smile, and Eddie smiles tightly in return, turning back to the front, his shoulders looking a little tense. 

Richie flicks the syllabus cover over, scanning through the list of film screenings, his face going hot at the professor’s choice for the second to last week of the semester. His eyes immediately return to Eddie, who stares resolutely at the front of the room. 

It had been the summer after freshman year of high school, one of the rare occasions when Mrs. K had deigned to let Eddie stay over Richie’s house. Richie’d insisted; one of his cousins had somehow gotten his hands on an advance VHS copy of _My Own Private Idaho_ , and they sure as shit weren’t going to be featuring anything like that at the Aladdin anytime soon. The two of them had laid side by side in Richie’s bed in a trance after the credits rolled, not bothering to turn off the irritating fuzzy TV screen. 

Richie, as usual, had been eager to interrupt that beautiful silence. “I would totally blow River Phoenix.”

Eddie’d given him a half-hearted punch to his side, then stared thoughtfully at Richie’s ceiling. “He _is_ really cute,” he’d said quietly. 

“Holy shit, Eds.” Richie’d tickled him under his arms. “I always thought you were a eunuch down there.” 

“ _Shut the fuck up, asshole._ ” Eddie’d giggled breathlessly, struggling to get away.

Richie’d stopped, and they laid facing each other. He can still remember the sound of windchimes filtering in through his bedroom window. 

“I’ve never even kissed anyone, Rich.”

Richie’s heart had gone right up into his throat. “Well…” He’d nudged closer, sliding his fingers gently along one of Eddie’s palms. “That’s a really easy fix, Eds. ...But if you don’t want it to be me, I can’t say’s I blame you.” 

“ _Richie._ ” Something in the way Eddie’d said his name had been unusually firm. And then Eddie’d actually been the one to interlace their fingers, nudge closer, and admit, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” before gently pressing their mouths together. 

Richie remembers wishing he could magically take away any shame Eddie’d had about being so inexperienced, especially when kissing Eddie just once had been worth more to Richie than all the shit he’d done with other people combined. 

He struggles to return his attention to the classroom, to whatever the fuck Professor Lawrence is saying. It’s going to be a long semester.


	3. Chapter 3

“Two breakfast sandwiches, over easy, keep it sleazy!” Richie shouts back to the kitchen. Friday morning, and it’s absolute chaos in the student center caf. He loves it. It’s one of his two jobs on campus, and while it’s not glamorous and he sometimes has to wear a fucking hairnet, playing the emcee is something he already does for free when he’s not at work, so vamping is an easy way to keep it fun. He throws a big Italian hero to a big Italian jock in the back, football-style--“Stay hungry, big man!”--while handing change off to the two breakfast sandwich girls. 

He does also love the multitasking part; it keeps his naturally buzzy brain occupied. 

He’s so occupied on this first Friday that he doesn’t notice Eddie a few people back in line, flanked on either side by two members of the campus gay mafia. 

As much of a groove as Richie’s in, he inhales, faltering for a second as they approach the counter. “Gentlemen, what’s your pleasure?”

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice is soft and sweet--polite--underneath the din. “Could we get three breakfast sandwiches and a Hangover Buster smoothie to go, please?”

“Sure thing. Everything bagel okay for you? I know how you don’t trust croissants.”

“That’s perfect.” Eddie’s smile looks surprised, which just makes Richie sad. “Thanks, Richie.”

Richie shouts out the order and keeps the line moving, so skilled at the aforementioned multitasking that he’s able to keep an ear on the three as they shift down toward the cash register (and he continues to do every other fucking thing behind the counter). 

“Is that--?”

Eddie’s fierce whisper: “ _Yes, shut up._ ”

“He’s hot.”

“No; he’s _pretty._ ”

Eddie again: “ _Would you two shut the fuck up for five seconds?_ ”

Richie has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. So Eddie does remember him. He does exist. 

 

That night, as he and Bev are busy getting ready to go out--his band’s first real gig of the year--he gets another odd scrap of validation. 

“So you’re in film class with Eddie?”

Richie fumbles, nearly dropping the bottle of Blue Galactic nail polish as he hands it off to her to make designs for him. “Yeah. Why, did he say something about me?”

Bev catches the bottle with ease, smooth as ever. “Okay, wow, calm down.”

“I’m calm. What did he say?” Richie spreads his fingers out on his desk in front of her. 

“He just mentioned that you’re in a class together,” she says, enunciating in a way that screams _end of discussion._

“That’s it?” Richie can’t even hide the disappointment in his voice. 

Bev hesitates, rolling the bottle between her palms and unscrewing the cap. “No, of course not. But before you say anything: I’m not doing this I-go-back-and-forth-between-the-two-of-you thing. You’re both my friends. It’s unfair and uncomfortable.”

“Cocktease.”

She ignores the remark and paints a delicate half-moon on Richie’s thumb. “I just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re doing about it. And this stays between us.”

“I mean, it sucks balls,” Richie says plainly. “It sucks to miss someone so much who’s sitting right there in front of you. I get it. Time passes, people naturally grow apart, we go to college, shit changes. _We_ change. There are chapters to all our lives, blah blah blah. But I was always so sure that Eddie was a permanent fixture in mine. Like, it never even entered my mind that we might stop being friends. I still don’t know what happened.” 

“At the risk of sounding redundant,” she blows on his fingertips, “ _talk to him._ ”

Despite kicking the night off with that bit of melancholy conversation, Richie has a fucking phenomenal show. The energy is crazy; everyone is vibrating with the joy of it being the weekend, of the first week of classes being done and nowhere to be in the morning. Their original songs get way more love than they’re used to, and the room is packed for their finale of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” People are jumping and some are even holding up lighters in honor of Kurt Cobain as Richie screams into the mic. He feels unstoppable. 

His hair is damp and his shirt still clings to him a little as he and Mike make their way back to their respective dorms. Richie’d managed to get a single as a sophomore, which was unheard of, but it did mean being separated from his friends. 

“You wanna go back to my room? I got a bottle of Jack,” Mike offers. 

Richie turns to him, noticing the slight plea in his eyes under one of the streetlights along the path they’re walking. “Uh, I would, but I gotta take a shower; I smell like--”

“Teen spirit?” Mike smiles. 

“No, I was gonna say I smell like--”

“Beep beep, Richie.” He suddenly looks exhausted and anxious at the same time.

“I thought you’d be having Nicole over tonight.”

“No.” Mike shakes his head, his pensive face punctuated by the hissing crickets. “This summer, when we were living together… I started having nightmares again. I got kind of violent in my sleep.”

“ _Shit._ ” Mike hadn’t suffered from night terrors since they were in high school. He’d nearly failed junior year because of them. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got an appointment with Counseling tomorrow.” He comes to a stop as they reach the fork in the path. Mike exhales heavily, turning to give him a quick hug. “You did great tonight--seriously. Best I’ve ever seen you.”

“Really?” Richie ducks his head bashfully. “Call me if you can’t sleep, okay?” He knows Mike won’t, though; he’s always been self-sufficient to a fault. 

Richie breaks into a whistle as they walk away from each other, his bass bouncing slightly where it’s strapped across his back. He cuts across the green, taking his usual shortcut behind the sports center. 

Something stops him as he approaches the building, though; he thinks he hears a tiny moan. He pauses and, after five whole seconds of complete silence, keeps on walking. Just as he’s about to turn the corner, though, he sees it: two figures on a bench in the dark doing some hardcore making out. Richie’s dick twitches, a purely human response to stimulus. He’s about to turn on his heel and give them some privacy when he realizes: the one on top--the one straddling the dark-haired one with all the piercings--is Eddie. 

Richie stops breathing, partly so they don’t notice he’s mere yards away and partly because the scene is an assault on his senses. Eddie’s smaller (it’s pretty much a guarantee, no matter who he’s with), and it’s clear that this guy is in a position to manhandle him, which he proves by lifting Eddie by the thighs and readjusting him in his lap. Their mouths break apart, and the guy buries his face in Eddie’s neck, doing something that makes Eddie go all breathy and his eyebrows furrow.

It’s too real. 

He catches the flash of Eddie’s tongue curling around the guy’s earlobe just before he bites it, his fingers twisting in his thick hair.

_Jesus._

Richie’s afraid if he stands there any longer he’ll be caught, so he tears his eyes away and strides off in the other direction, opting for the long route after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this turned into quite the angstbomb! I promise they'll be okay... eventually. ;)
> 
> *
> 
> Songs mentioned ARE:
> 
> "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k2C5TjS2sh4
> 
> "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0AKJMGxwpE  
> (and you have full permission from me to crank that shit up!)

Richie thrashes himself out of bed Monday morning just as the sun starts peeking in through his windows. His sheets are a tangled mess, and so is he; he’d slept maybe a grand total of four hours the entire weekend, every attempt thwarted by circuitous thoughts of Eddie or incoherent dreams. He’d even tried drinking himself into a stupor Saturday night, but that had just ended with him going back to his room, pulling out old mix tapes, and getting super maudlin. He’d kept his headphones on all night, slipping from _It must’ve been love but it’s over now_ (What fucking sadist put that on one of his tapes? Were they clairvoyant?) to dream versions of that memory of his and Eddie’s first kiss to _Words like violence break the silence_ to biking away from monsters together, Eddie clutching to his back like a leech. 

He’s ashamed to be so hung up on this. Last year had been fine, for the most part. What’s different now? Maybe it’s the fact that it’s a new year, they’re in a fucking class together, and the awful spell between them still hasn’t been broken. 

Richie has a couple of hours before he needs to get ready for class, so he throws on some track pants and does what he’s taken to doing whenever he feels pent up: he tries to run it out. No music, just his feet hitting the pavement and grass and dirt until his mind is clear. This particular morning, he ends up running for over a fucking hour, til his shirt is drenched and he’s got tiny yellow leaves stuck in his hair. It does the trick, though; he walks into Queer Cinema ready to face whatever it's bound to make him feel.

Eddie’s already there in his spot from last week (he likes routine), and he looks almost as bone tired as Richie feels. He glances up at Richie briefly, pulling the collar of his shirt higher, though it does nothing to hide the faint hickies on his neck. Richie blocks the memory of how they got there from his mind. 

Professor Lawrence is still setting up the video for today’s screening-- _Higher Learning_ \--so Richie takes the opportunity to sit behind and just to the left of Eddie, making him shift in his seat. He’s done feeling sad about this and sorry for himself. He leans over, his voice low just behind Eddie’s ear. “So: I hear one of your friends thinks I’m pretty.”

Eddie hesitates, not turning back, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact. “Yeah… I took him to the infirmary right after that to get checked out. He needs an eye transplant, but the doctors say he’ll be okay.”

Richie huffs, smiling wide. “Ouch. I’m wounded, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie’s cute little mouth lifts at the corner, but he doesn’t respond. It’s a start. 

After the screening is another story, however. Everyone’s a little riled up, to be fair; the film came out just earlier this year, it takes place on a college campus, and it’s a heavy one, going far beyond issues of sexuality. 

Considerable time is spent making connections between what they’ve seen and their own experience (it’s what Richie likes most about Professor Lawrence: she always puts that first). Then, conversation turns to the character of Kristen, who never confirms a label for herself but is seen sleeping with both a man and a woman in the film. 

“What are your thoughts on how her journey is presented?”

Richie’s hand shoots up, and she smiles, nodding at him. “I’ve gotta be honest: at first, I was really disappointed that they never address how she identifies because I think it would have been really powerful to have an openly bisexual character in such a mainstream movie. But she’s also young and still figuring out who she is, and I think the choice to show her getting with both a guy and a girl and not in a threesome situation is still pretty radical. I mean, it speaks for itself.”

“I actually interpreted the way they intercut those two sex scenes as more indicative of her being confused than anything else,” a girl in the back pipes up. “I found it super disappointing in the way of representation; just say she’s straight or say she’s gay, and be done with it.”

Richie turns to face her, ready, as ever, to argue. “Uh… she’s attracted to a man, and then she’s attracted to a woman. She bones the both of them. I think her sexual identity is clearly pretty fucking fluid.” He looks over his shoulder at Professor Lawrence. “Sorry for the f-bomb, Professor.”

She shakes her head fondly and rolls her eyes a little, poised in case the discussion turns ugly. Eddie’s hand raises timidly. She points to him. 

“I can’t help but focus on the fact that Kristen’s journey starts with her being raped by a man. If they were purely presenting a story of her exploring her sexuality, I feel like they wouldn’t have included that plot point at all.”

“Interesting, go on.” Professor Lawrence leans against her desk, crossing her arms and legs. 

“I mean that that event totally informs her decision to sleep with Taryn. I think if that hadn’t happened, then she wouldn’t have even been interested. I think she only turned to a woman because she felt unsafe with men.”

Richie throws his hands up in frustration. “But she sleeps with a different guy before that! That doesn’t make any sense.”

Eddie presses on: “Yeah: a guy who’s coded as pretty feminine. He’s gentle, soft-spoken; he even has long hair. I’m just saying, we have to take her sexuality at face value. Apart from that one indiscretion, we’re never led to believe she’s anything other than straight.”

“I _am_ taking it at face value! She’s attracted to--and sleeps with--both men and women. I’m not the one trying desperately to read between the lines to make her gay or straight.”

“This is all assuming bisexuality is a thing that exists,” Eddie says quietly, not facing Richie. 

Hands start shooting up all over the place, and Richie can practically hear the wall of anger building behind him. Eddie’s about to get his ass handed to him, and ordinarily Richie would be thrilled to see it, but right now he’s only feeling the harsh sting of betrayal. He can feel his breath getting all shallow. “Are you fucking serious right now?” he says quietly, so low that it almost gets lost in the chorus of _Kinsey scale_ ’s, but he directs it right at Eddie so he knows he hears it loud and clear. 

Professor Lawrence quickly corrals them, reminding the class that there’s a spectrum of identities present in this very classroom, yadda yadda yadda, any sweeping generalizations can be interpreted as a personal attack ( _no fucking shit, Professor_ ), and let’s talk about the reading for next week because class is a minute from being over. 

Richie’s throat is hot. He can’t cry, not now. He refuses. 

The tone for next period sounds, and he rushes to gather his shit so he can follow right on Eddie’s heels. The little asshole is not dropping an epic bomb like that and getting away. Fuck that. 

Mike’s standing outside waiting for him so they can go to lunch together. “Gimme a sec,” Richie mumbles to him, shouting over the crowd of students in the hall. “Hey, Kaspbrak!” He’s never spoken to Eddie in this tone before; it already feels terrible in his mouth, and yet he can’t stop himself. He’s out for blood.

Eddie turns, keeping his distance but at least having the decency to look sort of contrite. 

“You don’t really believe the bullshit that just came out of your mouth in there, do you?”

Eddie glances at Mike standing behind Richie, choosing his words carefully. “I was making a point about the movie. I stand by what I said.”

Richie shakes his head, trying in vain to compose himself. “You know, just because you’re a walking fucking gay pride parade now doesn’t mean you _own_ queer culture,” he seethes. “I was giving handjobs back when you were too chickenshit to let anyone breathe on you, let alone kiss you.”

(“ _Richie_ ,” he hears Mike chide, far in the background.)

He must touch a serious fucking nerve because Eddie’s voice cracks as he rushes forward, gives him a surprisingly strong shove, and screeches, “ _Go fuck yourself, Richie!_ ” 

“Gladly!” Richie shouts in return, giving the finger to his retreating back.


	5. Chapter 5

Richie gives himself a pass and stays in bed the rest of the day, skipping all his classes, shutting the curtains, and keeping the lights off in case anyone stops by. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here. He just wants to hide.

So much for being done feeling sorry for himself. 

He curls up under a thick orange throw blanket his Grandma gave him when he was a kid, that he’s used and kept since then, only he’s not sure if it’s helping or not, since it smells like childhood and Derry and every good memory of Eddie he has. He lets out a quiet sob, instantly hating himself for it. If he could just blindly hate Eddie, it would be so easy, so easy to get out of bed and get on with his day. And if this were just about that odd, bone-deep attraction he has to him--has always had, which is fucking strange to admit, even to himself--it’d be even easier. But that doesn’t even matter right now. 

What matters is that Eddie is one of the few people he actually cares about in this world (the rest he can count on the five fingers of his other hand), and Eddie’s made it clear that he doesn’t understand him, fundamentally doesn’t understand who he is. No: Eddie _hates_ who he is. 

Richie presses his face into his pillow and gets vocal, a raspy sob tearing through his throat. 

An image comes to him, a sense memory of being held, wrapped up and held tightly as he cried. He flops onto his back, eyes wide. He can’t believe he’d forgotten. Well, he hadn’t forgotten exactly; it’d just been buried. 

He can’t remember the why of it, but some time in middle school, one fall, he’d gotten into the habit of sneaking out of his house and rapping on Eddie’s window til he’d wake up and let him in, let him stay for a few hours or the whole night, however long it would take for him to stop shaking and crying. It must have been really bad with his folks at that time. Whatever it was, Richie’s glad to have not held onto that part of the memory. 

Eventually, Eddie’d come to expect him, sitting up with his little lamp on, reading until Richie’d show up, then shooting out of bed to intercept him before he could make the racket he always unintentionally tended to.

Richie never had to say anything, and Eddie never had to ask what he needed. Eddie’d be unusually sure of himself in these moments, taking Richie’s hand and pulling him towards the bed, pulling his shoes and glasses off for him, and wrapping him in a cocoon of duvet and his arms. Richie’d loved pressing his face into Eddie’s neck and listening to him say all the right things, everything he needed to hear: _You’re not alone, you’re safe, Rich, we’re all scared, we’ll protect each other, forever._

Eddie’d been so fucking tiny then, but Richie’d never felt safer, more protected, more loved because Eddie loved hard, wrapping all his limbs around him and _clutching_ him for hours, sometimes until the sun came up and he’d been all wrung out. And it would strike him just how selfless Eddie was, letting Richie soak his t-shirt and get under the covers with the cuffs of his jeans dirty, sometimes even wet from rain, his typical fussiness a complete non-issue in the face of Richie’s distress. 

Richie is brought back to the present by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. It rings several times throughout the day (he doesn’t answer it), and both Mike and Bev stop by to knock on his door at different points. Bev leaves a plate of dinner from the dining hall outside around six. _Mike must have tipped her off to what happened_ , he realizes with a rush of affection for the both of them. 

He sleeps hard, exhausted from all the crying, and the next day he still feels awful, so he skips his morning classes and fiddles with his acoustic guitar, hoping he can make his feelings productive at least. 

At around noon, he notices a note being slipped under his door, sealed and everything. He sets his guitar aside and picks it up, pulling a neat-looking piece of green stationery out from its matching envelope. It’s personalized, _From the desk of Edward Kaspbrak_ inscribed in gold lettering in the upper righthand corner. Richie’s anxious about its contents, but he can’t help smiling. “Fucking nerd.”

He surprises himself by tearing up again as he reads through the heartfelt apology. It doesn’t really give Richie anything in the way of an explanation, but it’s enough to get him out of his room and ready to face campus again. 

When he steps into the hall to check his messages, he sees that his white board is absolutely covered in Mike and Bev’s handwriting. He giggles, until he realizes what the main message is: “LOSERS REUNION ‘95,” with a date of this Saturday. 

"Holy shit."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOSERS REUNION '95!
> 
> Songs mentioned:
> 
> "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lWJXDG2i0A
> 
> "Another Day in Paradise" by Phil Collins  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qt2mbGP6vFI
> 
> "Cover Girl" by NKOTB (live version bc it's way more fun)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5d0T015ZA4
> 
> "Lovesong" by The Cure  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXCKLJGLENs

By the time Saturday rolls around, Richie isn’t sure whether to consider it a blessing or a curse that he hasn’t seen Eddie since their confrontation. The balm of his apology letter has totally worn off, Richie finding himself newly sore about the whole thing the more time he’s had to mull it over.

He’s determined to have fun tonight, though--even if it requires an unprecedented fucking level of showmanship.

Bev’s confirmed that _everyone_ is coming, Bill and Stan rolling in together by car from Wesleyan and Ben flying in from New York. _And yes, Eddie’s coming; he told me. Calm your balls._

They’ve decided to convene at Morgan’s Tavern for dinner because it’s a very special occasion and _we can afford to be fancy, damn it_ (Mike’s words).

Five are already standing by the hostess station when Richie arrives, all of them more than loud enough to invite looks from the other diners. The staff already look concerned about the group. Richie smiles.

Ben--who’s been in the throes of what looks like an intense, intimate catch-up session with Beverly--is the first to notice him. “ _Hey!_ ” He rushes over, enveloping Richie in a tight bear hug before he has time to react.

Richie holds him at arm’s length, giving him an exaggerated, appreciative inspection. “Haystack is dead! Attention, everyone: Haystack has left the building!” Ben had started throwing himself into sports toward the end of high school, but he’s really grown into himself during his first year at Columbia. He’s at least a few inches taller, bearded, and still meaty but broad now, too--and very well-dressed. He’s by far the most glamorous of the group, and that includes Bev. Richie hugs him again. “Are you fucking kidding me? You look amazing.” Then, a little quieter, mouth grazing his earlobe: “Did you make out with Bev yet?”

Ben smacks him on the arm (it fucking hurts, _Jesus_ ) but gives him a look that says, _Trying--we’ll see_.

Bill’s behind him when they part, eagerly awaiting a hug. He’s still a string bean, reedy with that beautiful melancholy Richie swears he had even before Georgie. Then again, Richie supposes he wouldn’t have changed much since they saw each other just this past summer. Bill’s embrace is gentle, and their reunion is a little more muted; he and Richie have kept in touch pretty consistently, still as close as they always were.

Stan’s next, and he’s grown into himself, too, though he still has that air of guarded skepticism. “Trashmouth,” he says, clapping him on the back as they hug. “I’m surprised how much I’ve missed you.”

“Fuck off,” Richie says fondly, ruffling his curls and putting him into a brief headlock. “I love you, too.”

Richie spots Mike talking to the hostess, presumably giving her an update. It looks like he’s taken on the role of leader for tonight, which is interesting and feels right to Richie.

He knows Eddie’s finally arrived by Bill and Stan’s reactions. Ben preempts them, rushing to lift Eddie off the floor and twirling him until his face is red from laughter. The guys--all of whom probably haven’t seen Eddie since high school--marvel over him, characteristically tactile about it, pulling at his curls, patting his cheeks, and admiring his clothes.

Richie turns away, glad to hear Mike urging them toward their table.

 

Dinner is fun but a little disappointing for all of them; because of the size of their group, there’s a natural division that happens, Richie at one end of the table with Bill and Mike, and Bev, Ben, Stan, and Eddie catching up with each other at the other end. Mike tries to bridge the gap whenever possible, but it’s challenging. Richie’s a little grateful to not have to interact with Eddie just yet. He steals glances at him between bites and laughs.

They skip dessert at Mike’s suggestion. “This sucks. Let’s go somewhere where we can all talk to each other.”

This means walking back to campus together as the sun ekes out a final few minutes peeking through the foliage. Ben looks a little spooked by their crisp, New England surroundings.

Richie nudges him. “You look like you’ve never seen a tree in your life, city boy.”

Ben smiles. “No; it just reminds me a little too much of home, you know?”

“Well: there’s some good that came out of Derry,” Mike points out, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Th-th-that’s right,” Bill pipes up, pressing a kiss to the side of Stan’s face. It gives Richie pause--not the remark but the kiss. The way it looked. He’ll have to talk to Bill about that later.

He glances back at Eddie, who trails behind with Bev, their hands clasped together. Eddie glances back with a sad smile.

 

Because he has no roommates (and an enviable liquor supply, _thankyouverymuch_ ), Richie offers up his place as their hangout. His dorm room becomes their little world for the night, not unlike the Barrens were to them as kids. They don’t have to drink very much for the mood to be heightened and silly in the most beautiful way possible. They trade stories and play games and reminisce, Richie manning his makeshift bar all the while. He’s extra tactile with all of them, though he does his best to dance gracefully around Eddie.

He doesn’t mention the letter to him at all. He’s not sure why. Maybe he doesn’t want to do anything to dilute the sheer magic of them all being together again. Maybe he doesn’t think Eddie deserves it, and he wants to see him sweat a little.

At around one a.m., the visiting Losers start to yawn, and they all settle a bit, Richie, Mike, Bill, and Stan splitting sections of the bed, and the others pulling up cushions on the floor. Bev leans her head on Ben’s shoulder, and Eddie leans against her, creating an adorable domino effect.

“Play your guitar, Rich,” Bev urges with a sparkle in her eyes. Everyone else quickly concurs, and Richie heaves himself off the bed with a put-upon sigh, though he’s secretly thrilled to share this part of himself with them all.

“All right, but no requests from my adoring public.” Richie grabs the guitar from its stand and shoves the pick between his teeth, tuning it briefly before picking and leading the group through a few favorites from when they were kids: _Free Fallin’_ , _Another Day in Paradise_ , and even a (horribly butchered) version of New Kids on the Block’s _Cover Girl_ (which they all feel obligated to sing at Beverly, who cringes the entire time).

Richie glances around the room, messing around and trying to figure out what to play next. He’s overwhelmed by what it feels like to see them all sitting here in his room together, the seven of them. Lucky seven. Certain things from that time, that summer they came together, are so unbelievably vivid, more vivid than the six of his old friends sitting right in front of his eyes in present, screaming color. But other things, major things, are a huge fucking blur: like, how did they all find each other? Richie genuinely can’t remember how he met Bev or Mike, how they became friends. Right now, though, none of those details matter. He hasn’t felt this fucking happy in _years_. They’re all out of Derry, they’re free, and they’re all together again.

“ _Whenever I’m alone with you_ ,” he starts to sing. “ _You make me feel like I am home again. Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again._ ” 

He immediately notices the others aren’t singing along. Some are watching, and others are clearly wrapped up in memories of each other.

" _Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am young again. Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am fun again._ ” 

Bill’s eyes are already wet, he and Stan clasping hands on top of Richie’s duvet, Mike laid down across their laps.

Richie’s hand strums faster. “ _However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you._ ” He makes the mistake of looking right at Eddie on the next lyric: “ _What ever words I say, I will always love you._ ” Eddie’s looking right back. “ _I will always love you._ ”

Ben, Stan, and Eddie have started shedding actual tears. Bev disrupts the quiet by shouting “ _Fly me to the moon!_ ” when the appropriate time comes, sucking the tension out of the room and giving them all a very needed laugh.

Richie makes it to the end of the song without crying himself, which is a small miracle. “Okay,” he announces in a booming voice. “I need to stop before everyone throws themselves through the goddamn window.” The others erupt into laughter and applause as he tips an imaginary hat at them, replacing the guitar lovingly in its corner. “Tips? No?”

He hasn’t been leaning back against his headboard more than five seconds before Eddie gets up and crosses the room, fitting himself between Richie’s splayed legs, his back to Richie’s chest. He grabs both of Richie’s hands and wraps his arms around himself somewhat forcefully. “Your arms looked empty,” Eddie says. It’s just the kind of sentimental shit he would have said when they were kids.

_Aww_ , Richie hears the group fawn, somewhere in the background.

Fuck it all. Richie tightens his arms around Eddie and presses a kiss to his temple. Eddie turns to him, speaking quietly. “Did you get my--?”

“Yeah,” Richie quickly interrupts. “Thank you.” Eddie relaxes into him, going quite heavy. “Are you wasted, Eds?” Richie whispers into his ear.

“A little,” Eddie mumbles back with a mischievous smile.

Soon after, the others quietly start making their way out. It’s still fairly early, but Ben, Stan, and Bill are here the whole weekend, and they’ve got plans to spend the day together tomorrow. It feels like they have all the time in the world.

Ben and Bev leave together looking cuddly and eager, and Richie shoots them both a wink over Eddie’s head as they disappear through his door. Mike offers to take Stan and Bill back to his room, remembering his roommate is gone for the weekend and he’s got an extra bed.

Richie raises his eyebrows at the implication of that, giving Bill a look that says, _We’re putting a fucking pin in that for later, Denbrough._

Mike gestures at Eddie, who’s half-asleep in Richie’s lap. “What about…?”

“He can stay here. I don’t think he can walk.”

“I can walk just fine. ‘M drunk, not a fucking toddler,” Eddie protests, eyes still closed as he burrows into Richie’s chest.

“Maybe a drunk toddler,” Richie smiles, and Eddie gives him a half-hearted punch in the side.

Mike purses his lips. “Fair enough. We’ll see you guys tomorrow.” They shut the door behind them, and Richie listens as they make their way noisily down his hall, smiling as the sound fades, leaving him and Eddie alone in the quiet together.

He breathes in the scent of Eddie’s hair for a long moment before he feels his bladder protesting. “ _Fuck_. Eds, I gotta pee.”

“K,” Eddie mumbles, letting Richie lift him and lay him down on his bed, covering him with the orange throw.

Richie runs to the bathroom and gets ready for bed at lightning speed, a small part of him worried that Eddie might disappear while he’s brushing his teeth. When he returns, though, Eddie’s still there in his bed, asleep on his side under the blanket, pillow pulled down underneath his head and shoes kicked off haphazardly at the end of the mattress. He pulls Eddie’s shoes off properly and places them neatly in front of his door, pulling out a change of clothes from his own drawers that Eddie hopefully won’t be swimming in when he puts them on. He pulls the air mattress from his closet and winces at the sound of it as he starts pumping it up on the floor.

Eddie rustles awake with a little snort. “You should sleep in your bed.”

“No, Eds, you take it. I’m good. Don’t sleep in your jeans. You can wear that,” he nods his head at the t-shirt and sweats at his feet, turning respectfully away as he continues the arduous task of pumping up the mattress. He hears Eddie stumble a little as he changes, quickly flopping back onto the bed and crawling under the covers. Richie steals a pillow and blanket for himself and curls up on his side, glancing up at Eddie, whose eyes are closed again.

Just when Richie’s about to close his own eyes, he feels Eddie’s hand grasping for his over the side of the bed. He gives it over, letting Eddie pull it to his lips and kiss his knuckles with a slurred “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Richie replies easily, watching Eddie fall back into a drunken slumber. “And I hope you remember that in the morning.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is long, kind of sappy, and kind of smutty. Enjoy. :D

Eight hours later, Richie’s sitting at his desk quietly getting some reading done--well, to be fair, he’s half-paying attention to the words in his queer theory textbook and sneaking glances at Eddie after every paragraph. Eddie’s still fast asleep in his bed. He’s even a neat sleeper. Richie’s much more of a sprawler.

He quickly swivels his chair the other way when Eddie begins to stir, smiling at the cute little stretching noises he makes even as he feels a little dread at how this’ll all go down.

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice is still thick with sleep and unusually raspy.

“Good morning.” Richie swivels back around playfully, taking in Eddie’s slightly mussed hair and the faded black Clash shirt hanging off of his shoulder and _holy shit_ is that image unfair.

Eddie’s brow furrows with apprehension as he looks around the room and yawns. “What happened?”

“You were kind of wasted, so I told the other Losers you could stay here, and that was that. I slept there,” he points at the air mattress still on the floor, somewhat deflated (from all the aforementioned sprawling). “And you put those on yourself,” he indicates his own clothes hanging from Eddie’s slender frame. Eddie looks down, suddenly realizing what he’s wearing. “I didn’t look or anything. Scout’s honor.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re kind of a dick sometimes but not a monster.” Richie smirks. Eddie sits up all the way, the orange throw rolling down to his hips. He quickly clutches the side of his head. “Holy fucking _shit_.”

Richie scrambles out of the chair, almost toppling it, and points out the glass of water and two aspirin on the bedside table. “Take that.”

Eddie reaches for it, swallowing the pills down in the all-too-practiced way only he can, and notices the plate of pastries and crackers also on the bedside table. 

“I, uh, got most of it from the dining hall. In case you needed something in your stomach before we go meet the others. There’s saltines if your stomach feels _really_ shitty.” 

Eddie puts down the glass of water, suddenly looking dazed and overwhelmed. 

Richie’s eyes go wide. “What’s wrong? I promise: I didn’t take advantage of you.” He moves to usher Eddie up and out of bed. “Wait, are you gonna puke?”

“ _No_ , I just--. I can’t believe you did this, after all the things I said to you.”

“You apologized.” Richie’s heart gets a kickstart; they’re actually going to talk about it. “I was really harsh to you the other day, too.”

“You could’ve been harsher,” Eddie insists, his neat little hands fidgeting with the ends of the blanket in his lap. “I was a little fucking asshole.”

“You were,” Richie shrugs.

Eddie chokes out a laugh, and Richie realizes he’s crying. Eddie wipes at one of his eyes. “Shit.”

Richie sits down next to him and gingerly places a comforting hand on his shoulder. It’s strange to be so careful with his touches again after how wrapped up they were just last night. It takes a while for Eddie to open his mouth and start talking. Richie can tell he’s overthinking it, as always.

“I know I’m the reason we’re not friends anymore,” Eddie finally says, sniffling. “You’ve always tried, at least. You’ve always been nice to me, even after we stopped being close. I don’t deserve to be taken care of.”

Richie fights the urge to push his hair back from his forehead and wipe his tears away, the way Eddie did for him countless times after that horrible summer. “Maybe not. But I’m always going to anyway.” Eddie looks at him with huge, wet eyes. “You’re in my heart, Eds.” Richie’s words are super fucking sentimental, but he speaks them plainly. “All of you guys are. I don’t even want to think about where I’d be if I hadn’t met the Losers.” 

Eddie nods thoughtfully; he’s clearly thinking the same about himself.

“Let’s not be dicks to each other ever again.” Richie stretches a hand out to Eddie. “Deal?”

He takes it and shakes it. “Deal.” He quickly releases Richie’s hand to wipe at some of the cry-snot around his nose. “Sorry, I’m disgusting.”

Richie gets up and grabs a box of tissues from his desk and hands them over. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says, blowing his nose. He holds up his used tissue. “Are these from your spank station?”

Richie cackles, nudging him with his shoulder. “There he is! And no; I only use those to wipe my balls down after a long run.”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles and he lets out a long-suffering groan as he laughs. 

“Hey: this is what you signed up for when you met me, sweet pea. I am what I am. Love me or leave me.” Eddie stops laughing. They look at each other. His _I love you_ from the night before knocks around Richie’s head.

“I have something else to say,” Eddie’s brow furrows. “ _Fuck, my head hurts._ ”

Richie reaches across him to pick up the still half-full glass of water. “In this very special episode of _Eddie Spaghetti_ , Eddie drinks too much.” He hands him the water.

Eddie accepts it, eyebrow raised. “I’m only letting you get away with that because you’re taking such good care of me.” He downs the rest of it, seemingly to fortify himself, and continues. “What I said in class, all that stuff… I didn’t _really_ mean it. I think a lot of it was leftover shit from when we were kids.” Eddie swallows, avoiding Richie’s eyes. “That night, when you kissed me… I was so terrified. A million times more terrified than…” he trails off, seemingly losing that thread. “You know what my mom’s like. I spent most of my life in Derry up until that point feeling totally trapped, and like being myself, even taking the time to figure out who that was, wasn’t an option. Knowing who I was, even just for myself, wasn’t an option.”

Impulsively, Richie takes one of Eddie’s hands, sandwiching it between both of his own.

“Imagine never having kissed anyone, never having really _liked_ anyone, never allowing yourself to, and then… confirming all at once that not only are you attracted to boys, but you’re in love with your best friend who you’ve known since you were fucking eight years old. Your best friend, who’s been talking about tits since the day you met,” Eddie smiles.

“But--”

“I know. I knew you were into guys, too--obviously--but that didn’t matter. I felt like I couldn’t compete. I saw the kind of girls you were into, all those posters on your bedroom walls. I was so sure you’d break my heart. You already had been for years, with all your crushes. After we kissed, I couldn’t even handle being friends with you. It was just too painful.”

“Eddie.” Richie feels a well of regret in the pit of his stomach. “We could’ve--I mean, we _really_ could’ve--”

“No, we couldn’t have. I was nowhere near ready. I thought about telling you, but I was sure you would leave me for... fucking Rebecca Trant or Stephanie Harte.”

“ _Stephanie Harte._ I can assure you that wasn’t in the cards.”

Eddie smiles wide. “I know that now. Even _I_ wanted to make out with her a little. She wouldn’t be caught dead with you.”

Richie gathers himself, reeling from all that Eddie’s said. “Welp, first of all, let me give you a little lesson on dating bisexuals: we’re no more or less inclined to cheat on you or leave you than gay or straight people.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“And secondly…” Richie looks down at Eddie’s hand, enveloped by both of his. He strokes his thumb over his still delicate knuckles. “You _were_ in love with me? _Were._ ”

Eddie sighs heavily and blushes _hard_ , looking at the floor. “ _Richie._ ”

Richie reaches up to cradle Eddie’s jaw, swiping his thumb over an almost dry tear track on his cheek and gently turning his face so he can press a kiss to his mouth. It’s chaste and sweet, meant to make a point more than anything else--but it’s like a dam breaking, and suddenly they’re _clinging_ to each other, mouths fastened, barely separating to breathe, and he’s being pulled on top of Eddie, stretching full out on top of him, just that stupid orange blanket between them (which Eddie quickly scrambles to get rid of and throw over the side of the bed). 

Richie tries to be careful, but Eddie’s hands are everywhere--pulling at his shirt, tangling in his hair, gripping his ass, and he can’t help himself, he’s already grinding against Eddie’s thigh and sucking down his neck. (Eddie’s always had a knack for making him want to protect him and ruin him at the same time.) Richie still hasn’t changed into proper clothes, so it’s really just his boxers and Eddie’s sweatpants (his own loose, way too big sweatpants) between them, that and their threadbare t-shirts, and Eddie’s practically whining, _Jesus_ , it’s hotter than he ever could have pictured it being.

“Rich… Rich.” One of Eddie’s grabby hands turns into a tap on the shoulder.

“What?” Richie lifts himself onto his elbows, panting. “Too fast?”

“I still don’t feel great, can we just slow down... a little?” He looks regretful. He cards his fingers through Richie’s hair to pacify him. 

It sort of works; Richie’s eyelids go heavy at the touch. “I don’t know if I can. I could seriously eat you alive right now.”

That brings an even deeper flush to Eddie’s cheeks. He thumbs at Richie’s bottom lip, and Richie play-bites it. “Well, you’re going to have to,” he murmurs.

“Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I said so.” Eddie pushes his thumb past Richie’s lips and watches with a glazed expression as Richie obediently sucks on it. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Richie grazes his teeth along the pad of Eddie’s thumb. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m obsessed with your mouth.”

Richie leans down for a proper kiss, then drags said mouth over Eddie’s jaw, down along the column of his throat. “Is the name ‘Trashmouth’ officially retired?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eddie shoots back, totally negating the statement by ending it in a moan. “How long do we have? Until we’re meeting up with everyone?”

“Not long,” Richie says, totally distracted, sucking along Eddie’s collarbone, purposely leaving a mark.

“Thanks for being--” Eddie hisses, “--so specific.” He tugs hard on Richie’s hair. “I have an idea.”

“Just one? I have about three hundred right now. _Whoa_ ,” he says, feeling himself get unceremoniously flipped over. Eddie straddles his hips and smiles down at him. “Okay, I really like this idea. Big fan.”

“I haven’t even done anything to you yet.”

“Still: I like where you’re going with it.” He wraps his hands around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie readjusts himself in his lap in a way that makes his eyes roll back a little. He feels like he’s about to explode.

“I just realized, my breath is probably disgusting.”

“I literally could not care less right now, Eds.” 

Eddie’s hands stroke down the length of his arms. “I can’t believe how long you are.”

Richie arches up into him pointedly. “I’ve been trying to tell you all--”

“I mean your _limbs_ , jackass.” Eddie gingerly lays out on top of him, and Richie’s eyes go heavy again. “When did you get so fucking tall?”

“I guess you haven’t been paying as close attention,” Richie accepts a slow, sweet kiss, “as I have been to you.”

“Is that right?” Eddie parrots Richie. He shifts so he’s curled up against Richie’s side, fingers inching up under his shirt as he starts mouthing along the side of his neck. 

“Mm hmm.” Richie closes his eyes, lost in how perfect Eddie feels, his hands, his mouth, his legs where they’re tangled with his own. “You were always adorable, but this last year… it’s like you glow now. Everyone can see it, not just me.” He feels the tease of Eddie’s nails scratching at the skin above the waistband of his boxers, giving him goosebumps. Eddie shifts up so they’re face to face. “You’re beautiful,” Richie says before their mouths meet in a series of lazy, wet kisses. He gasps into Eddie’s mouth when he feels his hand finally slip under his shorts, slender, warm fingers wrapping confidently around him. 

“Let’s see if I can make _you_ glow.”

“Fuck, Eddie.”

Richie’s already so fucking keyed up that it doesn’t take long before he’s coming hard, harder than he has in years. He isn’t sure what pushes him over the edge--Eddie’s hand on him, the feel of him rutting against his thigh to that same rhythm, or his tongue curling against the sensitive skin between his neck and shoulder--but when he’s over it, he finds Eddie as flushed and out of breath as he is. 

Eddie wipes most of the wetness from his hand onto Richie’s stomach, sucking what’s left from the web between his thumb and forefinger, and it’s such a fucking dirty thing for Eddie Kaspbrak, _his Eddie_ , to do, that he swears he could come all over again. 

Eddie kisses his shoulder and relaxes into the mattress. 

“Wait. Did you…?”

Eddie nods, looking sated. 

“Holy shit, that’s hot.” Richie presses a hard kiss to his mouth, caressing Eddie’s face as they lean their foreheads against each other. “Wait. You’re wearing _my_ sweatpants.”

“Yes I am.” Eddie gives him a mischievous smile. “It’s all in there.”

Richie bursts into hysterics. He’s appalled and delighted; it’s just the kind of thing _he_ would ordinarily say to Eddie. It’s perfect.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad to see this come to an end! Thank you all so much for the love and encouragement as this story has unfolded. <3

Even though they’re already running late, they take their sweet time getting out of Richie’s bed and hauling themselves to the student center. Eddie’s thrown back on his own jeans from the night before, opting for another of Richie’s band tees for a top, at Richie’s insistence: _They look crazy fucking good on you_ , he says with a little hitch in his breath, fingertips dragging along one of Eddie’s bare shoulders as he changes. 

After this morning, they’re famished, overloading their plates with every kind of breakfast food and sliding into their seats with the other Losers to knowing glances, hidden nudges under the table, and stifled laughter.

Richie shoves about half a pancake into his mouth with a satisfied groan, then glances up at the group with a raised eyebrow and a smile. “You assholes run out of stuff to talk about already?”

Bev clears her throat before taking a sip of OJ, looking cozy under Ben’s arm. “Was that there last night, Eddie?” She nods at his lovingly bruised collarbone, exposed by the large neck of Richie’s Offspring shirt and spotlit by the sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It’s fucking comical how Eddie’s fork falls to his plate with a huge clatter, a bit of scrambled egg falling from his open mouth. 

“I don’t think it was,” Mike concurs from behind a coffee cup that just barely hides his smirk. 

The others applaud and catcall and generally mortify Eddie, who moves to shrug the sleeve of Richie’s shirt back onto his shoulder where it belongs. Richie pulls it back down again, making a blush creep all the way down Eddie’s neck to where the hickey is. 

“You see, my good lady and gents,” Richie begins grandly, pulling his British Gentleman voice out from the vault and dusting it off, “when one chap and another chap love each other very much--”

“Beep beep, dickhead,” Eddie murmurs fondly, giving his thigh a much too hard squeeze under the table that makes Richie jump.

 

The next morning, Ben, Bill, and Stan have already gone but that spell--the one that brought them all together that fuzzy summer six years ago--still hangs in the air, surrounding Richie and Eddie as they walk hand-in-hand to Queer Cinema. 

They sit together in the front row, hands still clasped on the armrest between them, Richie to Eddie’s left so he can take notes with his left hand and Eddie can write with his right. Richie has a feeling they’ll be bickering once the end credits roll for _Priscilla, Queen of the Desert_ , and he wouldn’t have it any other way--and thankfully, there’ll be far less bite to it this time than the last. 

Mike will reveal to Richie at lunch that getting him and Eddie to reconcile had been the entire impetus for getting the Losers Club back together in the first place, and that he had no idea it’d go as far as it did (Bev would claim otherwise). 

Richie can almost smell the concessions at the Aladdin as he reaches across his desk to write in small, messy letters in the corner of Eddie’s notebook, _It’s always been you_. And looking at the light play across Eddie’s familiar, beloved face, he thinks, _It always will be._ Wherever they are, at any age, in any universe, they’ve always been and will always be just like this. Eventually.


End file.
